Jean's Lamentation
by candycornbuddy
Summary: Jean laments about what was, could have been, and the reality of it all.


Jean wore a shell-shocked expression as the woman gestured to Marco's body, mutilated and torn at the flesh. His throat croaked and he couldn't speak. It was as if Life herself had decided that Jean wasn't worth protecting anymore. The only living person he truly cared for had been wrenched from his grasp without his knowledge, and he hadn't been able to prevent it. His mouth still hung open at the sight of Marco's torn flesh, dripping blood that no longer had life in it onto the cobbles.

He then realized he had no control over anything that happened here on this Earth - no, here in Hell.

"Look, the faster we get the bodies identified, the more grief we can avoid. Can you give me a hand here?"

Jean had already turned his back from the woman, whose withered hand was outstretched towards the sickeningly large rows of bodies that would be burned or drowned in decay and earth. Each and every one of them dead, and she didn't give a damn. He couldn't help someone to whom Marco's death meant nothing more than a number.

He struggled like a diseased aspen shaking through winter gales to walk down the street without crumpling, pushing to the back of his mind every kindness Marco had payed him, every moment they spent together. He kept his tears from swallowing his sanity, if only for the minutes he used to find a hiding place, somewhere he could mourn without shame.

He staggered and struggled like one of the many formerly alcoholic members of Garrison's down into a side street. He moved his feet slowly along the cobbles, the sounds that his boots made resounding off of the walls slightly. He crumpled against the wall and ran a hand through his hair, and that was when the tears that he had been so content with keeping locked away began to pour down the ashen and dirty skin of his face.

"Marco! Godamnnit, Marco!" He yelled out the name, but now it had become something more than a name. It wasn't a martyr, nor a cry of mourning. It was a warning, a battlecry. The strained syllables were riddled with tears, anger, and hate. So, so very much hate. He would single-handedly massacre every single Titan on the god-forsaken earth for taking him away. He leant into the rubbish in the alleyway, his aching limbs curling into fetal position.

The tears flew from his eyes with no mercy. He couldn't tell the fluid of his own eyes from the steadily coming down rain anymore. His mind flashed back to the now-decaying body that was Marco's. He screamed in a way that was barely audible. Marco was gone. Marco, with the freckles and pep-talks. Marco, with the shyness and sweet smile. That Marco was dead. The only way people besides Jean would remember him would be as a body in a burning pyre.

His mind flashed back to a day they had spent together in training.

It was after Jean and Eren had gotten into a fight, and Marco was concerned for both parties involved. They were sitting together on a bunk and absent-mindedly playing a card game.

"What do you have against him, anway?" Jean looked up at Marco's concerned and, in Jean's honest opinion, adorable face.

"He's just so damn full of himself. Oh, look at me! I want to kill all the Titans!" Jean waved his hands around comically, then shuffled the deck. "Wanna play again?" Marco shrugged slightly and shook his head no.

"Well, I don't know. I mean, what if the Titans killed somebody you cared about a lot? Like, I don't know, a friend? Or your mom?" Marco twiddled his thumbs and looked down, obviously embarassed at his attempts to defend Eren. Jean raised his left eyebrow slightly then shook his head a bit.

"Listen, Marco. We both know full well the Titans are right bastards, but everyone has lost somebody or something. Whether we dwell on it or not is our choice." Marco looked up at him with his wide eyes, then glanced down again.

"I guess you're right, to an extent. But, if I lost you, I don't know how I could choose not to mourn constantly." Marco was looking down more coyly now, blushing bright red.

"Marco."

"I-I'm sorry. Just forget about what I said." Marco started to climb down from Jean's bed, until an arm grasped his own.

"Why would you care about me that much, ever?"

"I don't know, you're my first real friend, and I don't really make friends easily." Marco rubbed his hand down his arm and then continued to speak. "It's just, I, well- forget it!" Jean placed his hands on Marco's and leaned in, planting his lips on the brunet across from him's own.

Jean removed his lips from Marco's, taking in his shocked expression.

"I understand, Marco. Let's try and get some sleep, yeah?" He gripped Marco's hand firmly and they fell asleep, fingers entwined so perfectly.

Thinking back on it, he could only imagine the Marco he loved as a corpse, disintigrating before his eyes. His heart was collapsing inside his ribcage and his eyes, formerly chocolate and warm, were rolling back into his head.

"Please, Marco. Please don't be dead." This plea was empty. There was nobody to hear it. A strong wind stirred the piles of wet trash that Jean had curled up in. "Please, Marco. I love you, now stop!"

Whatever tyranical god granted him this fate was a cruel one, a condescending and far from genteel grin surely having been placed upon its sallow face born from the absolute insanity of controlling the world.

He couldn't stop crying when thinking about the first kiss they shared. It had all ended too soon.

Jean's body lent itself outwards, as if giving up on life. He fell asleep in the cold world that had let his love die, his hand grasping for the hand, the cheek, the body he would never hold hold again.


End file.
